I’m sitting on my front porch, rocking in the chair, listening to the birds chirp as I breathe in the moist morning air at 6 a.m. The sun is out, it’s already 74 degrees, and the humidity glistens on the grateful flowers.
Then I breathe in the worries of all I need to do today: write a blog post, finish the synopsis of my new picture book for the publisher, drive a grandson to camp, attend a Zumba class, stop at the grocery store all sweaty and stinky afterwards.
The caw of a crow wakens me again to nature’s world in front of me.
Right on time, the newspaper is delivered by the swing of an arm through the open passenger window of José’s old white Chevy. And as always, José smiles and waves as he tosses the paper, perfectly placed halfway up our driveway.
I know our home is the last delivery on our block, but José turns his car around the circle and goes back into the neighborhood.
I grin. Five houses around the corner, our neighbor Cosmo is waiting for José with a cup of coffee for him, their daily routine.
Cosmo is 86 and handsomely wrinkled with a constant twinkle in his eyes. He arrived to America from Italy when he was 13. An immigrant, he explains proudly.
As Cosmo greets José, a 30-something Hispanic with halting but confident English, the two men, generations and original countries apart, hail each other like best friends.
Like good neighbors.
José’s Chevy re-enters the circle and he waves at me one more time.
His wide smile is all I need to brighten the rest of my day.